A Familiar Stranger
by Balrog Pimp
Summary: A little slash fic between Aragorn and Eomund. When the three companions travel into Rohan they meet with the young Third Marshall Eomer. Aragorn has memories of his Eomer's father, Eomund. In response to a challenge at LoM.


> _'I do not think your law was made for such a chance,' said Aragorn. 'Nor indeed am I a stranger; for I have been in this land before, more than once, and ridden with the host of the Rohirrim, though under another name and in another guise. You I have not seen before, for you are young, but I have spoken with Éomund your father...' – The Riders of Rohan, The Two Towers._  
  
A Familiar Stranger  
  
They passed us. Crashing down the grassy slopes on horseback. Proud men they looked and mighty as they passed us by. My heart leapt as I saw them, if the rumours were not true about the allegiance of Rohan with Mordor, then we had happened apon allies. Standing up I looked down on the éored and called out:  
  
"Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?"  
  
They moved as one at the slight turn of the leader with his spear, turning and not giving away in the least their inevitable shock they got from an unknown entity calling them as friend from behind. The came back up the slope, circling us; disciplined horses fell into place and moved forward as a living net. The spears were lowered; there was no escape. Then almost as suddenly two of the horses parted to make way for their leader.  
  
"What business does an elf, a man and a dwarf have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!" he commanded. The stern voice of the Marshal rang out clear and brash. Equally brash however was the deep, gravely tones emerging from my side:  
  
"Give me your name horse master and I shall give ya mine!"  
  
I cast a quick glare at Gimli for his cheek; this was not the time. Glancing up hastily I saw the sneer of a very annoyed Rider. He dismounted and passed the spear to another. As he stood apon the ground I could see that he was tall, even so by his own people's standards and quite well build and fit. He is a young man, certainly younger than I am, but... that would not be too difficult...  
  
'I wonder what he looks like under that helm?' I found myself thinking. I was shocked from such thoughts by what happened next:  
  
"I would cut of your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."  
  
"You would die before your stroke fell!" Legolas' bow flew to hand; arrow notched and pointed directly at the man's face. A chain reaction of spears crowed and pushed in closer, I could feel three, one at my back, head and chest; I raised my arms in a gesture of peace. Probably now would be the best time to answer the good Marshal's questions. Pushing aside Legolas' bow, I said:  
  
"I am Aragorn son of Arathorn. This is Gimli son of Gloin and Legolas of the woodland realm. We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden your king!"  
  
The tall Rohirrim appeared to relax at my words, or were those great armoured shoulders slouched for some other reason?  
  
"Théoden no longer recognises friend from foe. Not even his own kin." With a sweep of his hand he removed the large ornate helm from his head and apon seeing his face I must say I forgot to breathe for an instant.  
  
The memories came flooding back. The tall, majestic standing, the long, dirty blond braided hair, the fair yet rugged face with the not purposefully neat beard, the chiselled and hard wearing features and those deep, unusual among his kindred, dark brown eyes. This man standing before me seemed a memory of long ago, a time when I was very young, before I was ever a Ranger of the North, passing through lands as a stranger on a quest even I didn't understand. For a fleeting moment I saw the man that I once loved.  
  
The tall soldier walked slowly, watching his feet to make sure he didn't trip among the arrows, discarded swords and dead orcs that littered the blood stained green grass and fair smooth earth. He looked up and grinned as he saw me. He stumbled slightly and grasped me tightly by the shoulders into a relieved embrace.  
  
"Ahhh... we can all be glad that's over. I shall sleep easier tonight knowing that their foul feet will not be trampling over our lands again anytime soon!"  
  
I smiled at the brave talk of my friend and captain Éomund, husband to the king's daughter and Third Marshal of the Mark. So handsome he looked in the afterglow of battle, his mahogany eyes sparkled with joy... and grief. Some soldiers had died in the skirmish, but it had been a convincing victory for the cavalry of Rohan and for now there would be celebration then grief, for that is the way in the Riddermark. The Rohirrim are a people of war and take great pleasure in the clash of weaponry and the ring of steel, as far as orcs are concerned in any case, and victory is well enjoyed first, followed by the grief which must come.  
  
There is a somewhat awkward silence as I realise I must have been staring at him for sometime.  
  
"Yes Éomund, that was a battle well fought. You can be proud of this victory!" I congratulated him. My captain chuckled and his blond hair caught the sinking sun like fire.  
  
"What say you to a drink my friend? Come, come let us have a drink together Thorongil!"  
  
And he led me away to the tents the other men had set up a little away from the field of battle.  
  
Thorongil, yes, that was my name to him and to many others as I flitted about under the stars...  
  
I almost went to rub my eyes as I gazed apon this young man. Could it be? No, no... it couldn't. Éomund was younger than I was but not by much, besides this man did not recognise me... it had been a long time but I knew in my heart that Éomund would have never forgotten me. Thoughts barged through my head in a flash and I started to realise the young man had begun talking again:  
  
"Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and has claimed lordship over these lands. My company and those who are loyal to Rohan, and for that we are banished. The white wizard is cunning. He walks here and there they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked. And everywhere his spies slip passed our nets." The last part was a barely concealed accusation and he matched Legolas' cold glare with his own steely gaze.  
  
"We are no spies!" I cried, still some part of me crying out for this man to remember me and begging him to smile at me as he once did. I suddenly remembered the real need for my urgency than the need for familiarity. "We track a party of Uruk-Hai westward across the plain. They've taken two of our friends captive." I continued.  
  
"The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night." He answered and was interrupted quickly once again by Gimli:  
  
"But there were two hobbits. Did you see two hobbits with them?"  
  
"They would be small, only children to your eyes." CHILDREN? Of course!  
  
I sat on a sack in the makeshift tent the men had constructed for us. Ours was somewhat higher class than some of the other poles and cloth the soldiers had constructed for themselves and was actually closed off and had a proper entrance. Éomund sat across from me humming a tune I was not familiar with, or maybe it was distorted by the ale that was quickly depleting before us.  
  
The celebration, as it was, seemed more of an excuse to use up most of the provisions we had brought along with our hunting party, but at the time it seemed a good reason. Our chatter had mostly been about past war efforts and skirmishes, now as the liquor was wearing off and the sounds of men's snores began to surround us, talk changed to that of a less rowdy nature.  
  
"I suppose you will be glad to get back to your beautiful wife?" I asked, breaking the stillness. Éomund stopped humming and looked up.  
  
"Of course. She is with child again and I worry. I long to return home to her," he smiled, laughing softly at memories. "Yes I miss them very much. You know my son, Éomer, is almost five, already he knows how to lead a pony with but a gesture of his hand."  
  
I lean forward, eager to listen to news of Éomund's family. I have none of my own and so I am interested in family life. I am also well aquatinted with young Master Éomer, if only briefly it was enough. The boy is quite the character and every bit as keen and determined as his father.  
  
"Yes, I remember him. He will make your house proud one day." I say.  
  
Éomund seems pleased. "You are a good friend to me Thorongil. I admit I wondered at your motives for joining Thengel King's éored, but not long did it take me to realise my feelings were ill placed. You are a good man Thorongil, I deem you will make your house proud one day."  
  
His gaze pierces me and I gasp. It seems as though he is looking into my soul and seeing me for my true worth. He can't know...  
  
Suddenly I am aware that his hand is on my knee and he is fixing me with a look much different than wanting to see into my soul. I feel a tremor run through my body at the touch and I feel my arousal twitch as blood rushes to it and my face. I began to breath faster as I realise just how close he is to me and that that gap is decreasing as he leans closer to me. His eyes begin drifting shut and I can smell his breath, spiced by the ale. His long tussled hair is tickling my face now and I can't help but close my eyes and lean in too. Our lips touch... it is an incredible moment in my life...  
  
As I begin to move my lips against his I feel him heat up; I can feel his fire in the air around us. He groans and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me and thrusting his tongue dominantly into my eager mouth, suckling and tasting. I whimper as my erection is becoming swiftly harder under his lustful brutality. This man is a force to be reckoned with and I am completely out of control. He pulls back for a moment before pushing me down and lunging for my neck.  
  
"Thorongil..." he moans.  
  
My eyes snap open and I stiffen slightly. That's not my name I sharply remember and it comes back and hits me full force. Silently I plead to him... 'Call me Aragorn...' but he can't hear me and I can never tell... and he'll never know me for who I really am... he'll never know...my love...  
  
"We left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them."  
  
I am sweating and I look somewhat thankfully towards the smouldering pile of bodies to distract myself from the thoughts and feelings whirling about in my head like a windstorm. Gimli brings me back to myself once more:  
  
"Dead?"  
  
I realise the true hideousness of this statement. They can't be dead... Merry and Pippin... Their cheerful faces flash to the forefront of my mind. It can't be true! I look to the man, Éomer, for that is who it must be and he lowers his eyes in apology.  
  
"I am sorry." He mutters softly. So like to his father! The resemblance, the tone and the mannerisms all there... save in a stranger's body.  
  
A sharp whistle!  
  
"Hasufel, Arod!" Two horses trot forward at the simplest hand gesture from Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark. I think back to those words once said by Éomund:  
  
Already he knows how to lead a pony with but a gesture of his hand...  
  
And my words:  
  
He will make your house proud one day...  
  
How the world unfolds and words spoken become realities.  
  
"May these horses bear you to better fortunes than their former masters. Farewell."  
  
He nods to us courteously, but nothing more than duty bids for manners. I look again at that face and I know that this time it won't be the last...  
  
He holds the reign steady as I swing myself up onto the saddle. His brave face belies the sadness, which must be tearing him at this parting. I have been with the Riddermark for a long time now and have fulfilled my pledge to the king to the best of my abilities. I have fought with many brave men and have come to know many of them as I would a brother. But none have I been so close to as Éomund of Rohan. My eyes itch as I look at him, and I hope with all my heart that I shall look apon his fair face again. I reach down awkwardly to give him one last hug.  
  
"Take care of yourself love." I whisper into his ear.  
  
That familiar laugh reaches my own ears as he says:  
  
"Thorongil, you have no place to tell me to be careful!" And he cuffs me playfully on the head. Then his face turns solemn, "Come back safe, alright?" he asks earnestly.  
  
I smile and nod.  
  
"Of course. Farewell, until I see you again."  
  
I give him a little wave and then I dig my boots in my horse's flanks to get him into a gallop.  
  
"Yah!" I cry.  
  
I make south, to Gondor, my own kingdom. But I will not rule yet. The pledge I have to make is to the ruling steward at Minas Tirith, Ecthelion II, and then from there? Only my feet know.  
  
Behind, I know he is watching me, waving slightly back at me. If I had only known that was the last time I'd see him. Maybe I would have looked back?  
  
Éomer replaces the helm with another lordly sweep of his hand. Once again that face is hidden from me and I return to the present yet again. This time it is he that is mounting the horse...  
  
"Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope. It is forsaken these lands. We ride north!" he cries.  
  
And so we ride away from each other at the last. I am heading South... and he is heading North...
> 
> End


End file.
